I lean over to grab Warren’s abandoned spatula, free up the catching edges of the crêpe and tip it out onto a plate. ‘Turn the heat down a little,’ I say. ‘More fat, less heat for the next ones.’
Malachi gives me a thankful nod, and pours fresh batter into the pan. He’s a good lad for a boy from Bootle. My true accent keeps sliding out when we speak, like something about the wordcrêpeis a Scouse activation code.
‘I always forget you’re a trained chef,’ Whit says.
‘Hang on, then why are we cooking?’ Malachi says teasingly.
‘Wasn’t it Patrick’s idea? He’s not even here.’
‘He conned us,’ gasps Warren. ‘Here, I made you an iced coffee.’
True husband material. When he passes over the lidded plastic cup, I make sure the looks are long, just in case. It’s good practice, either way.
‘Did you look through your binder yet?’ Whit asks, pointing to one on the counter.
It reminds me of an all-inclusive cocktail menu at a fancy hotel.Reminds meis probably the wrong phrase; perhaps, what I imagine they might be like. We don’t exactly have fancy resort holiday money yet – I really hope we get a brand deal that means I can take Mum for some sun on her bones one day.
‘What’s in here exactly?’ I ask, even though I know the answer.
‘It’s the catalogue that has all the options for your wedding, like the rings and stuff,’ explains Whit.
‘And we can just look through them?’ I ask.
Warren shakes his head. ‘Nope. Louise asked us to wait until we’re mic’d up. But someone peeked already.’
Whit covers her face. ‘It was looking at me!’
‘Is that before or after the challenge?’ I murmur, thinking aloud.
Before, they get lovey-dovey footage. But if a couple fucks up the challenge, they might have two royally pissed-off people trying to fight their corner over wedding linens. Smart producing.
‘I hope it’s an active one,’ Whit says, stretching her legs. ‘Like, a race or something.’
‘As long as we’re not rating the attractiveness of the other gender.’ I raise my voice for this part. ‘Sorry to say, men always get it wrong by not putting their fiancée first.’
‘Noted!’ laughs Warren.
‘I wouldnever,’ says Malachi, who looks genuinelyflabbergasted at the idea of rating his model-looks doctor fiancée less than number one.
The boys serve up crêpes for us, leaving some in the oven for Patrick and Carys. I want to ask where they are, but I need some Carys-free time this morning, especially after the strange intimacy of last night.
The sweet, tart crêpes wake me up, somewhat making up for my poor sleeping spot choice.
‘Do you think we’ll win money in the challenge?’ Whit asks.
‘Enough to counter the fines Bridget and Jackson are racking?’ I scoff.
‘Bridget and Jackson’s what now?’ Bridget says, striding into the kitchen in the world’s smallest high-waisted bikini. Not to be indelicate, but I’m not sure how she’s keeping her insidesinsidethat thing.
‘Fine hatting,’ Malachi fills in, which is both ridiculous and seems to work, given Bridget wears a trucker cap, her ponytail sticking out the back.
‘Yeah, I’m regretting not bringing a big hat,’ Whit explains. ‘Look, Lina’s got a big hat too.’
Across the pool, Lina is completely shaded by her massive hat that hasOut of Officeembroidered on the underside. An interesting choice, because I’m pretty sure Lina has never worked in an office. She’s too much of a free spirit for fluorescent strip lighting.
I wonder why she and Zack are over in the corner. Do they not want to come hang out and make crêpes? My resounding impression of this Zack dude is that he’s not outright evil like Jackson might be, but he seems kinda yuck. Maybe I have overly high standards for men.
‘Maybe they’ll let us out so we can go get you a big hat? I’ll buy you the big hat of your dreams,’ Malachi croons, and Whit goes to him for a kiss. Gosh, they’re sweet like sugared crêpes.
